My First Kiss
by Mark of a Raven
Summary: People always assumed my first kiss belonged to Viktor Krum. Silly, as I never said anything of the sort.


When I found myself a sudden celebrity at the fall of Voldemort, I had to learn how to deal with all sorts of nosey reporters. Reporters who wanted to know all about Harry, what we did when the trio disappeared, what my part in the group had really been. I was fairly good at handling this, because I had expected it. I answered acceptable questions, and deflected ones that I did not have the right to answer.

What I had not expected, however, was the sudden interest in my love life. Or lack there of.

Every reporter seemed to want to know about my first extremely famous boyfriend, Viktor Krum. They wanted to know if reports of a relationship with Harry Potter were true. They wanted to know exactly why my relationship with Ronald Weasley had died within the first three months after the fall of Lord Voldemort. One thing they never asked me was who my first kiss belonged to; they simply reported it as belonging to Viktor Krum. I could think of a certain redhead this would offend very much.

I never understood where they got this silly idea from. I certainly never told them. Granted, if they had asked, I wouldn't have answered. But my first kiss certainly did not belong to Viktor Krum. It did not even belong to various stupid Truth and Dare games the Gryffindors played on cold nights they were confined to the Common Room.

My first caught both of us by surprise. Neither of us had planned it. Oh, we certainly enjoyed it immensely, but had you asked either of us if we would kiss each other, we would have answered immediately and with a certain disgust, "Not in a million years!"

It was at the beginning of my fourth year, and I had been in the library at the time, in a lesser known section in the corner. I liked the way the books smelled there, old and wise, if it were possible to have that scent. I often studied there to get away from the random students who came into the library on a whim that quickly passed when they discovered the daunting majesty of its' depths. However, that day I was not destined to be alone. I had scarcely been there an hour when I was joined by none other than Fred Weasley.

Please, do not get ahead of me.

We both seemed equally surprised to see each other, Fred apparently because he thought no one else knew of this section, I because I didn't know Fred could read. We stared at each other for a moment before his usual mischievous grin spread over his face. "What are you doing, lurking about here, Granger?"

I quickly recovered, shooting him my most disdainful look. "Trying to escape from prats like you, of course."

He feigned hurt. "You mean to say my charms don't work on you? Granger, you wound me."

I rolled my eyes, and turned back to my book. "I wasn't aware you had charms, Fred. Anyway, if you're not looking for something, may you please leave?"

He didn't answer, but when I looked up from my book, he had sat down at the other end of the table, and pulled out a book, a notepad, and had begun reading and taking notes. Needless to say I was stunned. I had never thought Fred did homework.

Well, it turns out he didn't. What he was actually doing, when I came over to look, was taking notes on potions and enchantments for some joke-shop related thing. But what startled me was that what he was taking notes on was comparable to a 7th year's class subjects. "Fred…when did you learn this sort of thing?"

He didn't even look up from his notes. "Well, obviously I'm still in the process of learning. But honestly, Hermione, you think George and I just say random words and throw random ingredients together and pray something funny happens? Give us a little credit; that's extremely dangerous, and even as amazingly intelligent as we are, it wouldn't produce anything."

I stared at him, and somehow, we fell into discussion over what he was studying. I learned from him, and he learned from me. We argued over the merits and uses of crushed rhinoceros beetles, whether or not the bark of a willow tree would make you sick, and if newt tails could counteract effects of that sickness.

I strongly suspect the design of the Puking Pastille came from that conversation.

By the time our argument came to a stand still, the light in the window above had disappeared. When Fred checked his watch, it was, to our surprise, almost ten o'clock. Yet I did not feel the sudden urge to jump up and rush to the dormitory, horrified I'd stayed out after hours. I felt oddly calm. When I looked at Fred, I knew he felt the same way. There were few people we could talk to so freely and not feel self conscious. Even with Harry and Ron, I felt the need to hold back, because I knew they would laugh and call me a bookworm.

Well, just because I am doesn't mean they have to point it out all the time.

I smiled at Fred, feeling that no words could express how I felt. He hesitated, and then smiled back. His smile faded, however, and in his eyes, a new emotion came to light, one that, to this day, I cannot accurately describe. Intensity, longing, pain, regret, anger, joy, laughter, and so many more emotions come to mind when I think of the way he looked at me. All I know for sure, however, is that it paralyzed me, rooted me to the floor where I had stood, having gotten up to get ready to leave.

Very, very slowly, as though afraid I was a doe that would quite suddenly bolt, Fred rose from his chair and approached me. When he was within a foot of me, my body took an involuntary step back, where I found my back against the bookshelf. He paused, watching me for signs of fear, but all I felt was a strange, intense need to know what was going to happen next. And what happen next has stayed with me for years.

Very gently, Fred touched my neck, still watching me, I suppose in case I changed my mind. He seemed very concerned about this. Then, that same hand came around and cupped the back of my neck, drawing me closer to him, until our lips were so close, his breath, fast and short, washed against my lips like waves on the beach. He met my eyes one last time, and then at the same time, our eyes closed, and our mouths touched.

I always imagined my first kiss to be awkward; that I wouldn't know what to do, or some awful accident would happen to screw it up. And I'm sure many first kisses are like that; romantic movies don't always play out in real life. But my first kiss… there were no words to describe it, except the sweetness and gentleness with which he kissed me damn near broke my heart. I never imagined that sort of sensitivity from Fred Weasley. And I'm almost certain he never showed it to anyone else.

That stolen time in the library was not the last time I kissed Fred Weasley. There were several times throughout the years where pain, fear, or loneliness made us forget that I was a rule-abider, and he was a rule-breaker, and we would come together. Sometimes our kisses were just like our first; soft, sweet, something we found comfort in. Other times, they were angry, forceful, full of teeth and fury. There were times when I thought I heard him whisper three words against my neck or my lips, but whenever I asked, he would never repeat them.

I never thought of us as a couple, and I almost felt certain he didn't either. The fact that I felt a piece of me die when I saw him fall to the Death Eater's curse, and that I was the first in his arms when we discovered he was alive had to be irrelevant. We had a bond, we were friends. But we were nothing more; his irritating, charming, and stupid younger brother saw to that.

Then, on a trip to Hogsmeade with Ron two months after the war ended, we ran into Fred, with Angelina on his arm. We stopped, chatted, and moved on with what we were doing. But for the rest of the day, the look Fred had given me when he saw me with Ron felt like lead in my stomach. Though he was his usual cheerful self, I knew him too well; I saw the sudden anger, pain, and jealousy flash through his eyes before he hid them. What surprised me more, however, was that upon speaking to Angelina, I suddenly felt the urge to fly at her and tear her off of Fred. Which was utterly ridiculous. I mean. We weren't a couple, were we?

A few months later, I found myself in a strange position. I was spending Christmas with the Weasley family, and as I sat in the living room surrounded by what I considered my extended family, I found myself sitting between a boy I had recently ended a relationship with on account of "he felt too much like a brother to me" (thank God he returned the sentiment, or that holiday would have been hell) and the actual brother of said boy, one that I had snogged on multiple occasion. To make it more awkward, this brother seemed to no longer have inhibitions about touching me publicly, and while none of the family seemed to notice or find it strange, I most certainly did, as well as intensely distracting.

I spent much of that particular holiday dodging mistletoe and Fred (especially in combination) until one day, he apparently tired of our little cat-and-mouse. I suspect he had already asked Ginny to leave us alone when he marched into my room, and said with his usual straightforwardness, "What gives, Hermione?"

I looked up from my book, and prayed to Merlin my face was calm as I answered, "I haven't the faintest idea of what you're talking about, Fred."

He glared at me. "Oh, really? So you haven't been jumping ten feet every time I enter a room? You haven't been killing all the mistletoe in the house? You haven't been finding every excuse thinkable and unthinkable to leave if I'm around?"

I looked down at my hands. "Certainly not," I murmured.

He snorted loudly, a rude, very irritated sound. " Don't lie to me, Hermione. I've seen you with every emotion under the sun, and one thing I've discovered is you're an awful liar."

I shot out of my bed faster than I thought possible. "Don't patronize me," I snarled. He took a surprised step back. "You haven't the faintest idea of what I've been through, what I've seen. You've never been bound and tortured in all sorts of awful ways by a woman who was out of her mind. You've never seen the body of your best friend, and thought that everything you fought for was lost. You've never-"

"THEN TELL ME ABOUT IT!" Fred shouted suddenly, shutting me up effectively. "You walk around haunted, Hermione. I see it, Mum sees it, even Harry sees it, and he doesn't look any better! You don't let anyone in, you never talk about what happened; you just tried to move on with your life like the war never happened, like you've never had to fight for your life, but you have, Hermione! You can't just keep moving and expect that those memories would just ago away! Let me in, Hermione, before you fall to pieces!"

I stared at him in silence. Finally, I whispered in a cracked voice, "Why do you care anyway? You've certainly never paid this much attention to me before, and-"

With a noise strangely like a growl, Fred grabbed my arms roughly and yanked me to him. Tangling his hands in my hair, he forced his mouth against mine. I fought for a second, but slowly yielded to him. Despite his rough embrace, his mouth moved over mine with a gentle, steady, reassuring movement. It was as though he were trying to heal my soul with this one kiss. I sighed and leaned into him, and let the kiss go on forever, it seemed. And then, very gently, he removed his hands from my hair and wrapped them around my waist as he leaned back to look me in the eyes.

"I love you, Hermione. Please, just let me love you."

And I did.

Author's Note: This didn't go where I thought it would. But. Eh. Read and review, please. J


End file.
